“Oh, Johnny!” he exclaimed, “I have had such a night.”
“Bad?”
“No; good. I went to sleep at once and never woke till now. It has done me a world of good. And you?”
“I? Oh well, I don’t think I slept quite as well as I did here; it was a strange bed,” I answered, carelessly.
The next night the same plan was carried out, he taking my bed; I his. And again John slept through it, while I did not sleep at all. I said nothing about it: John Whitney’s comfort was of more importance than mine.
The third night came. This night we had been to the theatre, and had laughed ourselves hoarse, and been altogether delighted. No sooner was I in bed, and feeling dead asleep, than the door slowly opened and in came Lady Whitney, a candle in one hand, a wineglass in the other.
“John, my dear,” she began, “your tonic was forgotten this evening. I think you had better take it now. Featherston said, you know—— Good gracious!” she broke off. “Why, it is Johnny!”
I could hardly speak for laughing, her face presented such a picture of astonishment. Sitting up in bed, I told her all; there was no help for it: that we had exchanged beds, John not having been able to sleep in this one.
“And do you sleep well in it?” she asked.
“No, not yet. But I feel very sleepy to-night, dear Lady Whitney.”